The Prince and the Rockstar
by 1tT4k3sTw0
Summary: Francis is a prince, Arthur is a rockstar, Alfred is a cat. A gift for some good friends of mine


The Prince and the Rockstar

His Royal Highness, Prince Francis Bonnefoy, honestly couldn't remember the name of this charity he was attending too. All he knew was that it would split all the money it made to three very successful hospitals.

And money it would make. This charity didn't only have the young, handsome prince but also his mother and younger sisters. And all kinds of celebrities, from movie stars, to best-selling authors, to musicians. Looking at all the super active teenage girls in the grassy field where the charity took place, he knew exactly what music group had caught their attention.

The Shakespeare's Rejects.

The British rock band became a hit almost overnight. Their faces were on the walls of every teenage girl in Europe, and probably America and Canada as well.

It was the lead singer who received the most praise: Arthur Kirkland. He was a lithe figure, with piercings in his ears and who knew where else. And his blond hair streak with blood red dye, and passionate emerald eyes hidden beneath a pair of massive eyebrows.

Arthur Kirkland was stone cold sexy, and he being the lead singer of a popular rock band certainly didn't lessen his appeal.

Francis, a heartthrob in his own right, was signing autographs and taking pictures. Whenever he was allowed a moment to catch his breath, he would look with longing across the field where The Shakespeare's Rejects were performing on a stage. Over the steady buzz of chattering crowds he could just make out the tune of "Mercutio's Ballad", one of his favorites.

Francis was a closet fan. He couldn't let anyone know about the numerous CDs hidden in his room. He was a prince after all and he had a regal reputation to uphold. No one would approve of him listening to an emo rock bank that was _British_ at that.

With a mental sigh he turned back to the throng of screaming girls, he wouldn't get a chance to meet the legendary Arthur Kirkland. He'd have to settle with the CDs.

Arthur stepped into the air conditioned tour bus with a loud sigh of relief. He was all for helping to raise money for charity but today had been too hot and too long.

After slipping out of his leather clothes and into a loose t-shirt and jeans, he sat on a chair. His band mates talking about all the other guest stars had appeared. Apparently even French royalty had made an appearance.

Arthur felt himself scowl on reflex; the French were going to give him some ugly-ass wrinkles. He couldn't wait to get out of this country.

The bus was heading back into the city when Arthur identified that off feeling that had plagued him since he had sat down. There was no fat feline sprawled on his lap, trapping him on the chair.

"Meowfred," he called, looking around for his pet. It was unnatural of the cat to not immediately greet him. When Meowfred still didn't appear Arthur grew concerned, he asked his band mates if they had spotted him, they hadn't.

Arthur searched every nook and cranny of the van, finding a few of his cat's missing toys but not Meowfred himself. Then Arthur noticed that one of the windows were open and panic shot through his heart.

"TURN THE BUS AROUND!"

FRUK

Francis entered the limo by himself, his mother had other duties to attend to and his sister had gone off with friends. Leaving him to head on home.

He leaned his head back against the seat and hummed, bone wearing from the long day.

Then he heard purring.

Glancing at the empty seat beside him Francis nearly jumped out of his skin.

A large white cat sat there, starring at him with bright blue eyes. It acted like it belonged in the limo.

"B-Bonjour," he said uneasily, "You little…wraith."

The cat strode over and made itself at home on Francis' lap, its purring intensified as it brushed against Francis' belly.

Francis smiled fondly and ran his fingers across its back, its thick fur incredibly soft.

He took out a piece of chocolate from his mini fridge and offered it to the feline who devoured it quickly. It licked Francis' fingers and nuzzled into his palm.

"You're easy to please;" Francis chuckled, "That's what I look for in people."

He then noticed a glint of metal; the cat wore a collar partially hidden by the thick black fur around its neck. It had a tag with a number; Francis pulled out his phone and quickly dialed.

It was answered on the third ring. " _What_?"

He looked at his phone with a disgusted expression; leave it to the British… "You wouldn't happen to be the owner of a large white cat, would you?"

"Meowfred," the stranger gasped.

Francis burst into laughter, "A billion names in the world and you choose _Meowfred_!?"

"When I want your opinion on naming my cat, I'll ask," the voice snapped. "Now let me speak to my cat.

Francis blinked, "Pardon?"

"Did I fucking stutter? Let me speak to Meowfred. I want to have proof you have him."

Still thoroughly confused Francis placed his phone on the cat's ear. He could hear the Brit baby talking the animal who purred in response. After a few moments he brought the phone back to his own ear.

"Satisfied," he asked.

"Slightly," the voice replied. "Now's there the matter of giving me my cat back."

Francis turned his lips up in a grin; he had the strongest urge to royally mess with the stranger. "Pardon, but I never said I was going to give precious Meowfred _back_. In fact I'm thinking about keeping him."

He pulled the phone from his ear and burst into laughter as the British voice on the line started to scream a number of profanities at him, some very colorful and _very_ creative.

Meowfred looked up at Francis and he could've sworn the cat's eyes were laughing along with him.

"You poor thing," he cooed, rubbing his chin, "To have to live with that." He put the phone back to his ear when the voice stopped to take a breath. "Okay, okay, if he means that much you can come pick him up." He gave the Brit the address to his mansion. Then making a smooching sound he hung up before the rude British voice could reply, pulling out another piece of chocolate for Meowfred.

FRUK

Arthur stared up at the heavily guarded mansion in shock. Just who the hell had kidnapped Meowfred?  
It was seemed a blur as the guards radioed someone inside the building, telling them about Arthur's arrival before letting him in. He supposed his cat's kidnapper had told him they were coming.

He ended up being seated in a nice, clean waiting room and he had never felt more out of place in his life, sitting on a deep red, fluffy couch, wearing ripped jeans, old T-shirt, and leather jacket.

The door opened and Arthur jumped to his feet, the first thing he noticed was his cat sitting contently in a stranger's arms. And then he noticed the stranger.

Fuck but he was hot, long soft looking blond hair and light stubble, his eyes a pretty shade of blue.

Arthur willed his blood not to head south.

"Good evening, Mrs. Meowfred," the Frenchman smiled welcomingly. "I'm Francis Bonnefoy."

Francis Bonnefoy…as in the prince of France…fuck.

Arthur quickly turned his eyes on Meowfred. "Hello traitor," Arthur growled at the cat that sat smugly in the prince's arms, his throat vibrating with a purr.

Francis smirked, "Oh, don't be so prickly. The cat probably liked being pampered by someone who doesn't reek of cigarettes and alcohol."

Arthur turned his green-eyed glare from his cat to the Frenchman. He remembered to hold his tongue at the last second. "Thank you for being king to my cat, Your Majesty…even if you kidnapped him." Woops.

Francis's eyes widened ever so slightly, "I didn't kidnap Meowfred, he stole away in my limousine."

Limousine, this Frenchman made him sick. Especially those perfect blue eyes and silky head of hair, he just might vomit.

He stretched out his arms for his cat, for some reason electricity shot through his arms when his fingers brushed Francis's arm. He quickly reeled back, Meowfred nuzzling into his neck.

"I best be going then," Arthur snapped and turned to go.

Francis's words stopped him: "Are you late for a concert?"

Arthur looked over his shoulder to cock a brow at him, "Excuse me?"

"I know who you are, Mr. Kirkland. You're the lead singer of Shakespeare's Rejects."

That surprised and flattered Arthur (who would not admit it) this git hardly looked the type to favor punk rock music. "You're a fan?"  
The man grinned like a cat, "Oh, I never said that, mon lapin."

Arthur's scowl returned, "Then why bring it up?"

"I may not be a fan of that melancholy moaning you call singing, but that doesn't mean I'm not flattered to meet a celebrity."

"But you're a prince," Arthur pointed out, "You were born a celebrity."

The Frenchman took a few steps forward, Arthur could smell his rosy perfume, and took a few steps back. He didn't want to stand too close.

It was a fact Francis seemed to like considering the look on his face, "Do I intimidate you?"

Arthur snorted, "Please the only thing you do is keep me guessing on your gender."

"Either way I know how to give a good time," the man purred. Arthur swallowed.

"I'll get out of your feminine hair now," he decided but the prince blocked his path.

"You have somewhere to be? Stay awhile."

" _Why_?"

"I like Meowfred, I don't want to say goodbye yet."

Arthur really wanted to say no, nothing good or decent would come out of this. But he doubted he could actually reject royalty.

"Very well," he finally sighed, "If I must."

Francis grinned and linked their arms, again that pesky electricity.

"Excellent, let's go up to my room. I need to show you what _good_ fashion looks like."

FRUK

Oh Francis knew meeting Arthur Kirkland in the flesh was a bad idea. Now he was going to have to have this tiny angry Brit.

First he would need to take off his clothes.

Inside Francis's bedroom Meowfred immediately trotted over to the pile of unfinished candy Francis had given him.

Arthur shot him a look, Francis shrugged innocently before disappearing into his walk-in closet. He returned a few minutes later with some of his top-brand clothing. He placed them neatly on his king-sized bed and looked at Arthur appraisingly.

"What," the man snapped after a few more awkward moments of silence. "I'm trying to decide if you'd fit in one of my outfits."

The man blanched, "Why on earth would you want me to wear your clothes?"

"To see if you would look good in them," Francis stated simply.

"I don't wear clothes that cost more than my tour bus," Arthur replied. "And I don't do button-ups."

"Picky, picky," Francis clicked his tongue before returning his clothes to the closet. "If you're ugly under those clothes you could've just said so."

Arthur's brow furrowed, "Excuse you?"

Francis fought back a grin, he had read that Arthur Kirkland was self-conscious about almost anything.

"Not everyone can be perfect like moi," he went on, "So if you're all bones or pudgy it's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm in excellent health thank you very much," Arthur quipped, his arms crossed.

Francis brought out some relaxation wear, one of his favorite silky robes, and started to undress.

"W-What the hell are you doing," Arthur spluttered and Francis was keen to see his blush.

"Just because you don't like my clothes doesn't mean I don't," Francis said causally as he unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off his shoulders. Happily he noticed the Brit eyeing his chest.

He suddenly stepped forward, jolting Arthur with his nearness. "Are you still intimated? Or do you just like what you see?"

Arthur scowled at him but his eyes were thoughtful, "…You're trying to seduce me."

It wasn't a question.

Francis grinned lazily, "And if I am?"  
"I thought you weren't a fan," Arthur's eyes trail down to the Frenchman's lips.

"I'm a fan of pretty things," Francis breathed.

Arthur took a step back, "I'm in good shape."

Francis chuckled, "Are you up for proving it?"

"Meowfred's right there," Arthur pointed to his cat who was snoring on his back, his paws in the air.

"I don't think he'd be bothered," Francis replied. Arthur seemed to be thinking about it, his large brows furrowed again.

Finally he sighed and rolled his eyes, "Fine, let's fuck. I have nothing else to do."

In the darkened room Arthur listened to Francis unscrew the bottle of lube.

Their clothes were already littered on the floor; Arthur had been amazed how quickly Francis discarded his expensive clothing. His lips were bruised from some very heavy making out that had felt like a very fun contest.

He sucked his breath through his teeth as he felt Francis's wet fingers slide into his arse. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the way his digits were getting closer and closer to his spot of G.

Francis's warm tongue suddenly started licking on his nipples, paying close attention to the pierced one.

"I like this," Francis breathed against Arthur's skin, causing goosebumps as his tongue danced on the metal. "It's sexy."

"It is," Arthur grinned, running his fingers through soft blond hair.

Francis started to kiss his body, traveling down to his navel and his happy trail, all the while scissoring him with his fingers.

Arthur breathed, "That's the spot." Francis smiled against his pubic hair. He slipped another finger in.

"Lick me," Arthur sighed then moaned when Francis obliged, his tongue sliding leisurely down his hardened cock.

"Yes, dearie, _yes_ ," Arthur arched his head up, tightening his grip on Francis's head.

Suddenly Francis pulled his mouth and fingers away, making Arthur let out an unwanted whimper.

"Oh, don't worry, mon lapin," Francis growled. "I'm going to make you come all of Europe will hear." He lifted up the bottle of lube.

Seeing his plan Arthur sat up and grabbed the prince's wrist, stopping him.

Arthur lowered his eyelids seductively, "I can handle that."

He answered Francis's questioning look by lying on his stomach and grabbed the man's hard shaft. He kissed along the throbbing vein, licking the leaking tip before deep throating him. As his head bobbed Francis's whispered moans were a hot melody to his ears.

A few minutes later Francis hooked a finger in the corner of Arthur's mouth and pulled out.

"Now so bad at blowing, are you," Francis smirked, his face flushed and his chest heaving.

Arthur grinned, "Better than you, definitely."

Francis cocked a brow, the thrill of a challenge glowing in his eyes. The prospect of penetration forgotten he rolled Arthur onto his back and leered over him, knowing his plan Arthur's pulse pounded with excitement and lust.

They both had a tactic when it acmes to blow jobs. Francis liked to slowly build up the pressure with long, slow licks, accompanying by kisses. While Arthur was simpler, he swallowed the cock and sucked. It was proving to be effective if the prince's quivering hips were anything to go by.

They both jolted and came within second of each other; Francis had been quick enough to remove his mouth in time. Arthur ended up swallowing.

They both sat up, catching their breath, the sight of Arthur covered in his own cum was proving to be very arousing to Francis who had cam only a few moments ago. That was new.

Arthur laid back down and opened his legs, his arsehole opened and inviting.

"Can't waste lube and a wet dick," Arthur grinned like the Cheshire cat.

Francis guided his cock into the Brit, it slid in effortlessly. They both gasped at the feel, Arthur squeezed around Francis who pinned the man's arms to the bed.

Francis started to slowly rock against him, enjoying the fantastic, mind-blowing feel of sliding in and out of Arthur's arse.

"H-Harder," Arthur ordered/begged. Francis moved slowly but this time getting in deeper, which rewarded him with Arthur's jolting. The Brit moaned loudly, and Francis knew he found _the_ spot.

"I'll have you beg for mercy," Francis breathed into his ear before licking it.

He hit the spot again, making Arthur's toes curl.

"Faster-faster," Arthur moaned, gasping.

Francis nibbled his neck, hitting the G-spot with every thrust. Arthur wrapped his legs around Francis's hips, urging the member of royalty to go deeper.

Arthur dug grooves into Francis's shoulders yelling as he came hard, his back arched.

Francis clung to him, his seed spilling out inside the Brit.

Finally they fell back down, limbs tangled, soaked with sweat. Exhausted and spent they drifted off into sleep.

FRUK

A few hours later Francis was woken by laughing, sitting up with sex-crazed hair and dried cum on his stomach.

Arthur was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in the nude, and his cat sitting next to him.

Francis's heart dropped, recognizing the case in the cat's mouth.

Arthur looked over his shoulder with a smug smile. "I know you said you're not a fan. But all the merc for my band Meowfred found says otherwise."

Francis blushed like a young virgin. _Fuck…_


End file.
